Chapter 7 – Crossing
At the River…
The Narnian army reached the desert river which had been their aim shortly after midday, just as planned, but there was no rejoicing or relaxing. Instead, they had drawn themselves up into battlelines, and archers made ready with their arrows. Sir Eric and Fleetfeather had taken their news immediately to the Narnian kings and captains of the large number of enemy forces moving towards their position.
"How many would you say?" The high king had asked the knight from the back of his own warhorse. He and his brother rode at the front of the army, leading their men. "Hundreds, thousands?"
"They numbered in the thousands, your majesty. Were I to estimate, it would be close to two thousand armed orcs, in addition to the trolls Fleetfeather spotted. Of course I can't be certain, but it looks as if they've sent out their entire force in response to the explosions." The Gondorian knight responded. "We will reach the river before they will, of this I am sure."
"Then we keep them from crossing, and rain down arrows and bombs on them to whittle them down." King Edmond said as if he could see the battle already in his mind.
"Agreed." High King Peter replied. "We keep them on the other side of the river as long as we can and pick off the ones brave enough to cross it." He then asked, "How far is the orc's citadel from that point? Could we reach it by nightfall?" The king's face took on an uncharacteristic expression of hardness, so much so that it took the knight aback.
"Possibly, if the battle does not last all day." Sir Eric replied, uncertainly. "What does your majesty have in mind?"
The high king took a breath and sighed before revealing his mind. "Aslan instructed that we leave no orc alive, and that we are here to draw their attention from what is happening right under their noses. Razing their fortress would go a long way towards these goals."
"Are you certain Peter? If we destroy their army at the river, the fortress and its occupants will be no threat to us. We may risk more soldiers' lives needlessly in a siege without significant gains." Edmond protested respectfully.
"No, I am not certain it is the safe or even smart thing to do militarily, Ed." Peter replied. "I am certain our sister would have stronger words for the foolishness of it than you. But Aslan instructed that we give no quarter, take no surrender, and leave no orc alive. As long as there are orcs alive in that fortress, we are disobeying Aslan, and we rule only at his pleasure."
King Edmond was silent at this as they rode side by side, wrestling with what he would be asked to do both in terms of sending their own troops in and incurring casualties, and in terms of the merciless slaughter which was being discussed. He liked neither, but could not argue with the simple facts that his brother had considered. Aslan was the True King of Narnia above either of them, and the Great Lion had ordered it of them.
"We push to the fortress then if we still have the daylight left." Edmond finally said, his own expression saddened briefly before he too became resolute, steeling himself for what was to come.
The captain of the companies of mice, Klippiwick, having heard the exchange from the back of a centaur captain who had graciously lent him a ride for his very short stature, then hopped from where he had been riding to the charger on which King Edmond rode, leaping gracefully in spite of the movement of both his platforms.
"Your majesty, if I may have a moment of your time, and propose a solution to the, er, fortress problem." He addressed his king with a respectful bow.
"Of course, noble mouse. Speak your mind." King Edmond replied.
Klippiwick then began to outline his plan for all those within earshot. When he was finished, he waited patiently for the king's reply, knowing not only that the plan was bold and unorthodox in warfare, but also that it would work. He was certain of it.
"They would never see it coming." King Edmond finally replied, and the high king nodded his approval.
The river itself as they reached it was relatively narrow, shallow, slow running, and surprisingly clean at that point, flowing as it did from the mountain range to the north, and could be crossed with ease by centaur and horse, coming up to just about the thighs of a man, though the foot soldiers of more diminutive stature would have to be carried across by either wagon or cavalry. But their own crossing would have to wait as they readied themselves for the arrival of the orc's "welcome party."
"Send the order to all of our archers," Edmond told their captains as they formed up, "collect every arrow you can find on the battlefield, whether they be theirs or ours, as soon as you make the crossing. We can afford to waste none."
The strongest and most physically powerful of their troops, the minotaurs, were placed in the front of the lines bearing heavy shields locked together in front and interspersed among the rest of the forward lines to raise their shields in defense against arrows which might fall against them. The Narnians had hidden their cavalry, led by High King Peter, behind the bluff to their right flank, so that they could not be seen yet from the other side of the river. Their flying scouts, supplied with crates of the dwarven bombs rested atop those same bluffs and out of sight as well. They were accompanied by two companies of archers for their own defense and to snipe at the enemy troops as they received opprtunity.
The first wave of orcs saw the Narnian host from a distance across the river before they reached it. These were a mix of the taller and more physically powerful black skinned uruks and the seemingly weaker and smaller pale skinned variety. But these were no lumberjacks, and no strangers to war either. Upon the first siting, the orcs charged at the arranged forces of armed troops, not able to see the full strength of the entire host for the way they were arranged.
The Narnians held their positions, watching the now charging footsoldiers shouting their screeching, bloodcurdling battlecries. The minotaurs however neither flinched nor appeared moved by the impending horde. Unlike most other Narnians, theirs was a culture of warriors whose lives were marked by trials and hardships, tested and toughened by harsh and brutal upbringings. It was the reason why the kings and queens of Narnia prior to the White Witch had largely shunned them and held them in suspicion. The mob of screaming orcs scared them not one wit. In truth, were one to have observed the expressions on the bovine faces of the nine foot tall warriors, they would have seen them grinning with excited anticipation at the impending clash in contrast to their faun, dwarf, Archenlander, and talking animal counterparts.
The orcs continued to advance, emboldened by the Narnians' seeming reluctance to engage. They filled the open ground on the other side of the river until it looked as though a river of fiends and foul beasts had flooded the opposing bank. When it looked as though no more would be emerging from the desert passes beyond as the flying scouts watched, a signal was given from the heights of the bluffs.
"Archers!" The order was given, and as one thousands of archers stood out from behind the front shield wall with nocked bows, drawing them as they stood. Almost as quickly the order was given, "Release!"
And then chaos erupted on the other side of the river bank as the deadly rain came down on the forces of Mordor. But these orc warriors had been in combat before. They were no strangers to flights of arrows as they quickly raised their own shields to protect themselves. Orc archers returned with their own arrows and the shield bearing minotaurs did their best to protect themselves and their fellows, though not a few of the Narnians fell under the darts returned to them.
From high above the bluffs, Sir Eric gave the signal to the griffins and eagles from Fleetfeather's back and they leaped into the sky with their ordinance in their talons. The archers at the height of the bluffs then began to unload their own stock on those orcs that managed to make it into the river to cross, shooting at them at will until the previously clean waters flowed black with orc blood and bodies.
From high above on the other side of the river, the flying scouts released their bombs, especially picking out the oversized trolls and armed warriors nearly as big as them. Explosions rang out among them as foul black gore and blood was sprayed and splattered across the field. Confusion and panic broke out among the orcs as they could not tell where the deadly explosions were coming from at first. But soon, black poisoned arrows began to be unleashed at the sky to attempt to down their aerial attackers.
Sir Eric watched as a griffin near he and Fleetfeather had been struck by one, and his own mount had to swerve, dive, and roll as the man held on for dear life in order to avoid them. The black arrows became so thick in the sky that they forced the flying scouts back and out of the air, but the griffins and eagles had done their work well on the battlefield. Eleven more griffins and twice as many eagles were downed before the rest were out of range of the orc bows.
Having driven off the airborne attackers, the orcs began to feel emboldened again and pressed on towards the shallow river crossing where the Narnian army waited. Their numbers had been decimated quite literally, but were still substantial enough to give them confidence against the numbers of the unknown army they saw.
The orcs reached the river en masse and began to cross the narrow flowing waters, mindful of the archers' arrows which threatened to take them. It was then that the high king who had been watching the scene but hidden from the orcs' view gave the signal, kicking his own white warhorse into a charge, crying out, "For Narnia and for Aslan!" The cavalry, led by King Peter the Magnificent, stormed from where they had waited out of sight and met the orcs in the river. They were joined by the minotaurs and the front lines of the footsoldiers who had been waiting patiently for their king's command to bath their own weapons in orc blood.
With great bellows like raging bulls the massive minotaurs flung their shields aside, drew their massive double bladed war-axes, and charged at the orcs, swinging their heavy weapons with glee at the foul warriors at they met them in the river's waters. Seeing the minotaurs' courage, the men, fauns, and other front line troops were heartened and charged after them, engaging the orcs. The cavalry too met the orcs blade for blade, and the true battle began in earnest as the waters ran red and black with the blood of those injured and fallen.
When the minotaurs engaged their opponents, to the orcs' surprise, hordes of rodents leaped from the armor straps and shoulders of the gargantuan warriors and fell upon the heads and necks of the orcs nearest by without mercy. Tiny sharp swords like wicked fangs dug into orc throats, temples, and the backs of their necks so quickly that the fiends didn't know what had happened until they entered the blackness of death, and their corpses dropped into the river.
High King Peter's warhorse obeyed his body's every motion as they fought and soon his own Narnian tabard and kingly armor was splattered with black gore as his weapon fell again and again against the disgusting, nightmarish soldiers which swarmed all around them. It was bitter, butcher's work he did, and he loathed it, hating every stroke until he felt nothing for those he felled as he fought, and he felt as though he were a spectator in his own body watching it happen. All questions of who those he killed had been, whether they had families, whether they had been someone's friend had been shoved aside and left to die within him. It was not someone's son, someone's father, someone's friend.
It was an orc, and for that reason alone, it must die.
Around him, the battle raged on as troops fell on both sides. He knew that the outcome was nearly assured by numbers alone unless the enemy was led by an extremely cunning and skilled strategist. As it turned out, they were not. When it became clear that the orcs were on the losing side, many of the cowardly fiends turned tail and ran back in the direction of the desert passes which led back to the fortress. Those cavalry that saw it gave chase.
No orc is to be left alive. Peter thought again as he watched the horsemen and centaurs break off to give chase and run them down. The orcs thinned and thinned until their numbers could be counted in the low hundreds as the Narnians fell upon them again and again, accepting no surrender or laying down of arms.
It was then that they heard a screech, a terrifying, fear inducing screech from overhead. Peter had never felt so panicked in all of his life as the fear took hold of him. His chest hurt as knots seized in his stomach. Around him, his troops looked badly shaken even as they continued to try and fight. Even the minotaurs who seemed to fear nothing looked spooked and uncertain as wave after wave of tangible, debilitating fear descending upon the blood soaked river and surrounding battlefield.
The remaining orcs appeared to be the only ones unaffected by the fear. Indeed, they looked emboldened and rejuvenated, cheering whatever had delivered the ghastly change upon the clash.
Fighting the overwhelming panic, he looked skyward to see what had brought the change. There, in the sky, was what looked to be a kind of dragon the color of dark basalt circling and hovering in the sky. Its wingspan was enomous, and its back was covered in sharp spines. But it was not the dragon which unnerved him so.
It was the rider cloaked all in black which sat upon the fell beast. The rider's face could not be seen beneath the cowl it wore, and in truth, it looked like there was only a void of darkness where a face should be. Peter could not tell if it was the dragon which screamed the fear across the battle, or the rider.
Rider and dragon flew low and fast, unnaturally fast, across the river and snatched one of the minotaurs, paralyzed with fear, with the beast's claws. It drew the warrior high up into the sky before releasing and letting the Narnian fall to his death. Then, the wraithlike fiend did it again, and again, snatching Narnian after Narnian, paralyzed with fear, and ending their lives.
"Archers!" The High King tried to call out, but found he couldn't cry out loud enough, and even if he had, would they even be able to draw their bows to shoot at the wraith?
Around the battle, the sound of the wraith's gleeful laughter echoed from the bluffs.
In spite of their superior numbers, the tide of the battle began to turn, and Peter began to lose heart at the outcome. How could we have been so stupid as to think we could have dared to march into this place and challenged Mordor's power? He found himself thinking, become more and more convinced of his folly and worthlessness as a king. I have led all these good men and troops to their deaths, and for what?
In desperation, Peter cried out, "Aslan help us, or we are lost!" as he watched more and more of his troops felled by the awful rider. Each time the rider took one of the Narnians, Peter could swear that the cowl turned in his direction and though taunting the high king. I can kill you at my leisure, fool. But first, I will make you watch all of your men lose hope and die for your insolence.
Peter did not hear the words, but felt them drive deep into his mind.
Once more, but more weakly he cried out just the Lion's name, "Aslan! Where are you?!"
As the wraith flew high into the sky for another run, another sound was then heard across the battlefield which startled the black rider. It was a lion's roar, loud, awesome, and explosive. And as the high king watched incredulously, the shape of a huge golden lion leaped from the top of the nearest bluff high and far into the sky, higher than any cat should be able to leap, and grabbed the dragon with his claws, sinking his fangs into the beast's neck.
And then Peter watched as lion, dragon, and hapless black rider plunged earthward and slam into the river hard, spraying the bloodied waters in every direction. The dragon twitched and spasmed after the fall, but the lion appeared completely unaffected as he tore into the beast's neck and destroyed its spine.
And then Aslan turned his attention to the black rider. As Peter watched in awestruck and terrified amazement at the Great Lion's power against the rider, the wraith, also apparently unaffected by the fall, raised a wickedly sharp bastard sword against him. But the creature did not get the chance to strike as Aslan without mercy sprung at him, claws outstretched and fangs bared as the king of beasts went for the kill. He struck the wraith hard, destroying it and viciously shredding it until all that remained was a steaming pile of wretched black cloth, a broken sword, and a curious silver ring with a dark jewel inset which mysteriously fell to dust as the Lion tread on it, and was washed away by the river's flow.
Immediately, the tangible fear and dark thoughts which had descended on the high king fled, and he remembered himself and his courage. He cried out to his troops, "Aslan fights with us!" And a great cheer among the Narnians rose up and the slaughter of the orcs was renewed in earnest as they fought harder and harder against them, intending to make them pay for every Narnian life lost that day.
When the last orc they could see had been felled, and all that remained were corpses, Aslan came up alongside his chosen high king and told him, "Your job is not yet done today, Peter. You still have a fortress to raze. Let us go and check on our little friends' progress, shall we?"
Earlier before the battle...
Uglutz stood watch on the parapet of the citadel of Shindram like he did every blasted day. He did his job alright, he thought as he took a swig from the grog he kept nearby. He watched. He watched the same desert cliffs day in and day out. The same sand. The same blasted thing over and over again.
Truth was, Shindram gave him the willies, though he'd never admit it to anyone. Word was, it had been one of them ancient man cities once upon a time them Numenoreans tried to erect in Mordor when Sauron was gone from there, and his own people scattered across the land. It looked mannish enough with its high stone walls, but it also had an almost, well, elvish quality to it with its golden flowing towers and bronzed walls. He didn't like it, and had felt a lot more comfortable back west near the black gate, and darkened architecture of Barad-dur. He'd heard a were-wyrm had tried to destroy Shindram itself not long after they'd captured the man city of Minas Ithil and turned it to their own use. That was the cause of the central tower's collapse and the ruins around the fortress which his own people hadn't bothered to rebuild when they had occupied it once more. He too preferred the ruined nature of it.
The orc took another swig of grog as he watched some eagles or desert hawks fly high overhead. He could never tell the two apart, either in the sky or in the stew pot. They flew around and circled the citadel's ruined keep, landing every so often before jumping into the sky again.
Maybe they're relieving themselves or something. He thought to themselves. Or maybe they're laying some eggs. For a brief second he wondered how hawk eggs would taste, but then dismissed the thought with a wordless gesture and turned away from the sight. Even if they'd found some eggs, he'd never get a taste of them. They all go to the fat olog overlord.
He went back to his grog and to contemplating how boring and unchanging the view was. Turning his head towards the inner courtyard of the walled city, he noticed some rats scurrying about on the ground.
Yeah, that's more like what I'll get in my stew. More rat meat. He thought. Actually, rat wasn't too bad, though the little claws tended to get stuck in his teeth if they were prepared right, which they seldom were by the cooks.
He kept his attention on the rats. There do seem to be a lot of them, more than usual even, he considered as he continued to drink. Then, watching them, he noticed something he thought odd. It almost looked like… Well… For a brief instant, he thought he saw one of them with a sword belt tied around its body.
He looked suspiciously at the mug of grog he was holding, sniffed it, and then decided to poor it out over the side of the parapet. Someone must've left it sit too long, he decided.
Tossing away the empty mug, he turned back to watching the desert for any threats.
He felt something scurry up his back. Before he could react, a sharp pain stabbed at the back of his neck, and then everything went black and Uglutz felt nothing ever again.
Whew! Klippiwick thought as he jumped from the collapsing orc body after withdrawing his blade from where it silently had severed the orc's spinal cord from what passed for a brain. I don't know what's worse, the smell of the liquor on the beast, or its unwashed body.
The plan had been so clear and simple when it had formed in the warrior mouse's mind. If these orcs were like most taller beings he knew, they would totally dismiss the presence of mice on the ground, or running through their towers and along their hallways. Most other races tended to consider his own noble people as vermin and too weak or small to cause any harm, much less engender any respect. It was an opinion he had every intention of changing for not only himself, but for all mouse-kind. He would not let his children or any descendant suffer the same indignities his people had suffered for being so small if he could help it.
It was an irony that those who, in all truth, were their natural predators should also be the perfect partners in the military endeavor. The eagles flew them fast towards the citadel where they carefully deposited his strike force, landing a few at a time so as not to arouse suspicion. In all, fifty of his warriors had infiltrated the fortress with orders to move as quickly as possible and silently slay every orc they could find. In addition, his majesty King Edmond waited nearby for an eagle to carefully bring him in to sabotage the gates when the time was right and lock them in an open position if possible. The mice were more than willing to do this themselves, but Klippiwick had conceded that the mechanisms of the doors were likely too large and heavy for his warriors to move on their own.
Silently and swiftly he moved on to his next target just a little ways down the parapet walkway who had not seen his compatriot drop like a stone. Like with the other, Klippiwick could smell the disgustingly overpowering stench of alcohol and unwashed, dirty orc from a great distance with his rodent nostrils. He was confident that this beast too would be so inebriated as to be totally oblivious to the threat his presence posed until it was too late.
He was right.
This is almost too easy. Klippiwick thought to himself, considering it almost a mercy to the foul thing to be putting it out of its misery so quickly.
Around the fortress, orcs began dropping inexplicably and without warning as siege engines went unmanned, and archers fell, spilling their quivers across stone and wood. The alarm was not however raised until the fat overlord, a troll like olog of an orc named Getzler decided to uncharacteristically leave his "throne room" (as he liked to think of it), and wander outside to pleasure himself by tormenting some of his underlings.
Except all those underlings he saw were lying motionless on the ground. All around the grounds.
"What is going on here?!" He screamed in anger. "Call out the guards! We are under attack!" He shouted. But no one came running. No one responded.
He felt something clawing and scurrying up his back and across his body. Immediately Getzler began to try and swat whatever unseen wraith had tried to take him away, but he couldn't find anything to hit. And then there were stabbing pains in the back of his neck and his temples again and again, and another pain began at one point on his overly fat neck and before he knew what was happening crossed over to the other side, leaving black orc blood spilling from his throat.
The orc overlord clutched at his throat and the last thing he saw were several mice holding bloodied swords looking back at him to make certain their work was done. He then saw nothing at all as his vision went black as the abyss.
At Shindram…
Just as the last light of the day was extinguished, the remaining Narnian forces arrived at the orc fortress of Shindram. They were met with an open gate, and a smiling king with a mouse captain respectfully poised on his shoulder. The two had apparently discussed who would speak first beforehand, for when the high king arrived with the surviving army, Klippiwick stood on King Edmond's shoulder and, bowing respectfully to the high king reported, "The fortress is secure, your majesty. As far as my warriors are able to determine, there are no orcs left alive within its walls. As ordered."
And then, from just beyond and behind the high king who then stepped aside with a weary but appreciative look on his own face, a deep, leonine voice replied, "Well done, warriors. Well done."
Both King Edmond and Klippiwick then dropped to one knee immediately before the True King of Narnia. His brother, the high king said nothing, but deferred to the Lion as Aslan spoke. There was a sadness, and a trauma reflected in Peter's eyes in addition to the victory. Edmond needed not ask his brother what disturbed him so. They had won the day, but Peter's face had revealed in no uncertain terms that it hadn't been without cost.
They made camp before the walls of Shindram where they rested and mourned their dead. As much of a count as they could take was made, and they estimated that they had lost close to fifteen hundred of their own people to arrows, orc blades, and the airborne terror that had been what Sir Eric called a Nazgul, a "ringwraith."
When dawn broke, they packed up their camp, gathered everything flammable and explosive they could find from among the orc's supplies, and set the fortress to the torch in a great conflagration before setting forth once more towards their goal. The fires burned and burned for days like a beacon announcing to anyone and everyone that they were there, they had defeated a ringwraith, and they were not stopping.